


One Thousand Two Hundred Seconds

by MontanaHarper



Category: Teen Wolf (TV) RPF
Genre: First Time, M/M, Masturbation, Present Tense
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-12-19
Updated: 2012-12-19
Packaged: 2017-11-21 12:34:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,229
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/597819
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MontanaHarper/pseuds/MontanaHarper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot can happen in one thousand two hundred seconds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Thousand Two Hundred Seconds

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Dira Sudis (dsudis)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dsudis/gifts).



> This was written as a treat, because I saw Dira's DYA post and thought, "Ooooh, I can do this!"

Tyler is sprawled on the couch in his trailer, half-heartedly playing MLB12 while Dylan sits on the floor in front of him and monopolizes the TV and Xbox, when there's a knock on the door and Jenny calls out, "Twenty minutes, Hoechlin."

He sets aside his Vita and nudges Dylan with his bare foot.

"Wait, wait." Dylan hunches in on himself, like Tyler's going to reach over his shoulder and steal the controller away from him. "I'm about to take Fort Washington. Five more minutes, tops."

Tyler rolls his eyes but checks the time on his phone and settles in to watch. Seven minutes later, Dylan's still working on the fort's defenses, stabbing redcoats and dodging musket balls and bayonets, and Tyler's starting to feel a hint of tension threading under his skin and tightening the set of his shoulders. At ten minutes, he gives up waiting, pushing himself off the couch and thoroughly ruffling Dylan's hair on the way past.

"If Becca gives me a death glare when I go into makeup, I'm totally ratting you out," Dylan calls after him. He doesn't respond and Dylan continues, quiet enough that he's not sure he's supposed to hear, "And you'll just smile at her and she'll forgive you. Jerk." 

Underneath the surface annoyance, Dylan's tone is unmistakably fond. Tyler resists an equally fond grin and doesn't point out that he's not the only one in the habit of charming his way out of trouble with the crew. 

Once he's finally leaning back against the wall of the tiny bathroom, door firmly closed and locked behind him, Tyler gets himself off quick and dirty. Ten minutes means no time for finesse, no time for anything more than a tight grip slicked with spit and precome, lips parted on ragged breaths that are as quiet as he knows how to make them. He comes with a soft gasp, all too aware of the paper-thin trailer walls and Dylan in the next room.

~ | ~ | ~

When Jeff first sent the now-infamous twenty-minute-pants-warning memo to wardrobe, Tyler knew it would get passed around on the set, because that's how things work; they're like family, with all that implies. He resigned himself to the inevitability of good-natured teasing, and he hasn't been disappointed. Everyone seems to assume that the issue is physical discomfort, and that's not entirely wrong—he doesn't love how the unforgiving denim squashes his junk—but it's not entirely right, either. The bigger problem, which even Jeff doesn't know about, is that it's embarrassingly easy to get Tyler's motor revving, and with jeans that tight it's impossible to hide a semi, let alone a full hard-on.

A twenty-minute warning gives him enough time to take the edge off. It's a good system and it's worked well.

Until now, at least. Because now Dylan's spending all his free time playing AC3 on Tyler's Xbox, and that throws Tyler off his game in a way that sharing an apartment with him and Posey never had. 

And the thing is, Tyler doesn't know _why_.

~ | ~ | ~

The third time it happens, Tyler doesn't wait ten minutes, or even five, before heading to the bathroom. Dylan's too wrapped up in the game; short of actually standing between him and the TV or turning the Xbox off, Tyler doesn't think he's likely to get Dylan's attention, let alone get rid of him.

It's not particularly comfortable—standing, with his shorts pushed halfway down his thighs and one hip propped against the sink—but it's not actually the most awkward position he's jerked off in, so he can live with it. At least he can take some time today, tease himself until he's hard and then keep himself on the edge of coming, backing down every time he gets too close.

In the other room, he can hear the rise and fall of Dylan's voice, his words only slightly muffled by the wall that separates them: "No! Nonono! C'mon, man, it's a great disguise. You don't want to question me!" 

It's easy for Tyler to picture Dylan's body language, the way he leans further and further forward as his health bar slowly creeps downward, like sheer physical determination will suddenly give him an edge, maybe turn the tide in his favor. For all that the rest of his body sometimes sings with tension, though, Dylan's hands are always relaxed when he plays, his fingers moving lightning-quick on the controller.

Tyler imagines them curled around his dick instead, tight and hot, and he comes like someone pulled a trigger.

 _Oh,_ he thinks. _That's why._

~ | ~ | ~

Nothing really changes. 

Tyler pushes the epiphany aside and keeps doing his job, keeps living his life, and tries not to look at Dylan any more than before—or any differently than before. He also tries not to think about Dylan when he jerks off, but he's less successful there; A for effort, but a D for execution. He's hoping that part will get easier with time.

The complexities of their shooting schedules mean he gets a three-day reprieve from Dylan's constant presence in his trailer, in his _space_. He should probably feel more relieved about that than he actually does, but it's not until the fourth day, when Dylan shows up with an offhand 'hey, man, what's up?' that he actually starts to relax again.

~ | ~ | ~

"You know, you don't have to actually disappear for your secret pre-pants ritual," Dylan says from his usual spot on the floor. Tyler freezes, halfway to his feet, and Dylan goes on, "I'm busy trying to keep my ship from getting boarded, so it's not like I'm paying attention. Pretend I'm not even here and do whatever you've gotta do."

"I don't—" Tyler starts, stopping when he realizes he doesn't know how to finish that sentence. He tries again. "It's kind of personal. And I don't want to make things weird."

Dylan makes a dismissive noise, coupled with an expressive one-shouldered shrug. "You've seen me puke, I've seen you naked. I mean, we shared an apartment with only one bathroom. I think the 'things getting weird' ship has sailed."

It's a bad idea and Tyler knows it. 

"Whatever it is," Dylan says, his words measured now, and it makes Tyler _want_ to say yes, "it's okay. I won't mind, I swear." 

"Okay." Tyler settles back onto the couch. "Okay," he repeats, trying for more conviction this time, his heart pounding like he's sliding into third on a triple.

He's already half-hard by the time he gets a hand into his shorts; despite the awkward angle, and despite the fact that Dylan's sitting two feet away, he knows he's not going to last long. If he's being honest with himself, it's probably _because_ Dylan's sitting two feet away that he's got a hair trigger. He manages to keep his breathing steady and reasonably quiet, one eye on the TV where Dylan seems to be thoroughly engrossed in sinking British frigates. 

It's too dry and too rough and doesn't even feel particularly good, but that doesn't stop him from coming hard enough that he arches up and has to bite his lip to keep himself silent.

When he opens his eyes, though, he can see that Dylan is unnaturally still, the curve of his back tense and his shoulders moving visibly with each indrawn breath, and Tyler thinks, _Shit, this was such a bad idea._

~ | ~ | ~

Again, nothing really changes. 

No, that's a lie. _Everything_ changes, but not in the way Tyler's expecting.

They've always been handsy with each other off-camera, and Dylan doesn't stop reaching out, doesn't shy away from Tyler's touches. If anything, he lets his hands linger, maybe even leans into Tyler a little, and it's confusing.

~ | ~ | ~

It doesn't get any less confusing the next time Dylan turns on the Xbox, settles onto the floor in front of the TV, and leans back against the couch—leans back _between Tyler's sprawled legs_ —like it's nothing. When the knock and the warning come half an hour later, Dylan just throws his left arm over Tyler's knee and shifts enough to settle himself, solid and warm, along the inside of Tyler's calf.

"Dylan—"

"Shhh," Dylan interrupts. "I'm in the middle of an important battle." There's a beat of silence, and then he says, softly, "Go ahead. Do it."

For a second Tyler can't even breathe. 

The thing is, out of all of them, Dylan is the biggest risk-taker. It's not that he does dumb things, or at least not any dumber than what the rest of them do, but he puts himself out there, even when he's scared. Maybe especially when he's scared, from what Tyler's seen. The least he deserves is for Tyler to put himself out there in return.

The angle is still awkward, his hand shoved gracelessly down the front of his shorts, but it doesn't matter, because Dylan's leaning into him and he can't imagine it's going to take very long at all. 

~ | ~ | ~

It's easier, after the first time. Tyler isn't particularly loud, but he's not trying to be absolutely silent anymore, either, and if Dylan minds the hushed sound of lube-slick skin on skin or the occasional bitten-back moan, he doesn't show it. Even with Dylan mostly facing away, Tyler can see a sliver of his profile, can see the way his lashes flutter against his cheek and his tongue darts out to wet his lips, and he wonders if maybe he isn't the only one affected by their proximity.

They never talk about it, but it's never awkward or weird, either.

~ | ~ | ~

After nearly a week, it's actually starting to get comfortable.

Tyler has abandoned the flimsy cover of his shorts and the scrap of plausible deniability they offer, pushing them down just enough to free his dick and give himself room to work. He's been stroking himself slowly for about a minute, enjoying the light touch and the easy build of arousal, when he becomes aware of an unusual stillness.

He glances to the TV, where Connor is standing unmoving in the middle of a snowy wilderness, and then back down to Dylan, whose gaze seems to be focused on the carpet about a foot in front of himself. The controller is resting on Dylan's thigh, and his right hand is curled loosely against the unmistakable line of his dick, hard in his jeans. Tyler takes a breath, the air suddenly thick and heavy around them. He watches Dylan's throat work as he swallows, watches him lick his lips. 

"Tyler?" It's soft, like Dylan can feel the weird shift in atmosphere, too.

Tyler takes another breath. "Yeah?" he says, letting the easy movement of his hand slow and then stop as his heartbeat speeds up. 

"Can I— Is it okay if I touch you?" Dylan lets out a little huff of laughter. "You're kind of making me crazy here."

It's not what he's expecting, nowhere near.

"Yeah." The word is past his lips before he can second-guess himself. He's not sure they're entirely on the same page, but Dylan wants to touch him and there's really only one answer to that. "Yes," he says again. "Please."

Dylan's on his knees in an instant, controller landing forgotten on the floor as he moves in, hips flush against the couch and reaching out but not quite putting his hands on Tyler's skin. He looks suddenly nervous, his gaze flicking to where Tyler's hand is loose around the base of his dick and then up to Tyler's face. 

Tyler meets his eyes and thinks, _It's just Dylan. Just...me and Dylan. We can do this,_ and the knot that had been building in his stomach eases. 

"Hi," he says, not even trying to stop the grin that's spreading across his face.

Dylan smiles back, flattens one hand against Tyler's hip, fingers edging up under the hem of his shirt, and it feels hot and solid and real. 

"Hi."

~ | ~ | ~

They're lying on the couch, Dylan sprawled half on top of Tyler and both of them wedged kind of awkwardly in the narrow space with their legs tangled together because Dylan is always too damned distracting and Tyler never gets around to folding out the bed. They're a little sticky and a little sweaty and Tyler's thinking seriously about whether he can get away with asking for a thirty- or forty-five-minute pants warning, maybe.

"So, I'm not exactly clear on why this—" Dylan tightens his fingers on Tyler's spent dick. "—is what needs to be done before the jeans."

Tyler idly traces the line of Dylan's back, trailing all the way down over the curve of his bare ass and up again. "You have no idea how tight they are—"

"I'm pretty sure I do, actually." Dylan lifts his head from where it's been tucked in against Tyler's shoulder and neck, and gives him an exaggerated leer. "I've seen you in them."

Tyler ignores him and keeps going, enunciating the words carefully for the greatest impact. "They very clearly outline _everything_ that I've got going on on my pants."

There's a pause while Dylan seems to consider the implications, a tiny frown creasing his forehead. "Okay, yeah," he says finally. "I'm in favor of keeping your boners exclusively in the trailer—"

"Or the bedroom?" Tyler asks carefully.

"—or the bedroom," Dylan agrees with a pleased grin, "and far, far away from the cameras."

**Author's Note:**

> All fanfic is made-up, but this is extra made-up.
> 
> I cannot possibly thank [**casspeach**](http://archiveofourown.org/users/casspeach) enough. She betas, cheerleads, holds my hand, and just is basically my lifeline when I'm writing.
> 
> Thanks, too, to Dani, who helped with the AC3 aspects of this. I haven't played it yet, and she's my go-to gamer girl.


End file.
